Beasts of london, p.30
Beasts of London, page 30
“No.” She staggered but caught herself against the back of a nearby chair. “My God, what have I done?”
When the horned woman’s face materialized in the reflection of the window across from her, she flinched. “Do not be frightened, my daughter,” the creature said. “I simply took control of your body, as you asked.”
“What have you done to Mr. Morris?” Lucy demanded, straightening. “If you’ve harmed him—”
“I merely revealed what was hidden in his heart.”
She swallowed, her mouth dry. “You mean he truly was that creature I saw?”
“If you choose to see him as such.”
“If I choose to?” Her voice shook. “I wish more than anything that what I saw was a nightmare. He transformed before my eyes from a man into… something terrible.”
“One’s appearance does not determine their nature, my daughter. Perhaps you have adopted your father’s way of thinking?”
She stiffened, catching a glimpse of her scar in the reflection.
With a small sigh, the horned woman continued, “I have only revealed what was hidden in the hearts of all men here. Now, this London shall finally have but a taste of our glorious power. Are you not weary of hiding it?”
“I am not hiding anything,” she snapped. “This power, whatever you did to Mr. Morris to reveal him, has nothing to do with who I am.”
“And when you injured your father?” The horned woman’s voice was calm and smooth, and Lucy felt the shaky uncertainty of her own in keen contrast.
She clenched the chair tightly. “I did not mean to harm him.”
“Do you believe he will see it that way?”
“I—I—” She hesitated. “Of course Father will understand.”
“Look at your scar and tell me that again, child.”
With a hiss, Lucy wrenched the chair aside and strode toward the door. “I’m going to find Father,” she murmured to herself. “When I find him, I shall explain everything, and he will understand.”
A faint whimpering sound made her pause, and she looked down to see a sniveling man cowering with his back against the wall in the shadows by the door. Recognizing the gentleman at once as the host of the masquerade, she reached out to him gingerly and said, “Mr. Bradshaw, are you all right?”
“M-monster,” the man sputtered, his glazed eyes bulging as they stared at her. “He was a monster.”
The ballroom was a churning sea of colorful costumes, punctuated by the loud ocean-like roar of people shouting and struggling toward the exit. Many were already outside on the rainy London street. In the buzzing, mostly unintelligible chaos of voices, the beast was mentioned again and again.
With her chest aching, Lucy raced down the stairs and scanned the crowd for her father and sister. Agnes was nowhere in sight, but it only took moments for her to locate Father. He was the only civilian not heading toward the exit. He was speaking to two policemen.
As she neared, she overheard a bit of conversation that filled her with dread. “Yes, he was quite similar to a black leopard but larger and more powerful than any animal yet known to science. I saw the beast escape with my own eyes, officers. People must be warned that the Beast of London is not dead.”
“Father?” Lucy’s voice was meek like a child preparing to confess to breaking a priceless heirloom.
Upon seeing her, Father promptly excused himself from the officers. His face was pale and worn, but his eyes were bright as he pulled her aside. “Lucy, there you are. Did you see that great beast tear through the place?” He was breathless, excited, and focused like he was telling her one of his old hunting stories. “I’ve never seen an animal like it in all my years.”
“I saw it, Father.” She hesitated, preoccupying herself with twisting her loose hair into a bun. “Are Madam Hazel and Agnes safe?”
“Yes, I found them outside and saw to it they took a carriage home at once. The little fiddler was with them, but I could not find Cecil after he went after you.”
“Mr. Morris indeed went after me, but he… left before the beast appeared.”
“Where did he come from? It seemed to happen at the same time that the chaos began in the ballroom—people screaming at each other or shouting like lunatics. I’ve seen this behavior only once before.” His features hardened, and he lowered his voice to ask in a firm, serious tone, “Lucy, did you do this?”
“You believe that I—?” Her blood ran cold, but she placed her hand gently on his uninjured shoulder. “No, Father. It was the horned woman. She took control of me, and she—”
“She did what?” His eyes went wide. “Where the devil is your ring? What have you done with it?”
“I—I took it off for the evening.”
A shadow came over Father’s face. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you foolish, stupid girl?” His mouth curling in disgust, he pulled away from her grasp like it repelled him. “Do you realize you’ve caused everything I’ve worked so hard to prevent? After all I’ve done to hinder her from finding you, to prevent you from turning into…”
“Into what?”
He did not answer, his mouth forming a hard line.
“Father, please don’t look at me as if I were a stranger.” She shivered. “I am your daughter, your Lucy. Nothing has changed.”
“You are not my Lucy anymore.” His voice caught like he was on the verge of tears. He turned his face away from her, clutching his shoulder. “After what you’ve done tonight, you’ve ensured that you belong to her now. You are forever changed.”
“Father—” Her throat ached from unshed tears. When he refused to look at her, her stomach churned, and she covered her mouth, nauseated. “Please do not ignore me. Father, please look at me!”
“There are consequences for our actions, Lucy.”
Turning from him slowly, Lucy walked shakily out of the building and onto the pavement, maneuvering her way through the throng of people. While the cool London night air soothed the sweat forming on her brow and eased her nausea, it did nothing to calm the storm beginning to rage inside of her chest.
The horned woman was right, she thought, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. Father has abandoned me.
She began to walk aimlessly as she had in Italy upon learning her mother had died, without knowing where she was headed. All she knew was that she could not go home. What will Agnes think? Will she think I’m some sort of monster like…?
Lucy halted in her tracks. She brought her hands up to her mouth, feeling the scar and brushing salty tears from her lips. There is perhaps one place left for me to go, one person who embraces the monstrous and the strange.
The image of the bestial golden eyes flashing in the darkness made her heart jolt. Gooseflesh dotted her arms, and she hugged herself to stop her trembling just thinking of being in the same room as that creature again.
Steeling herself, Lucy held her chin high and clenched her fists. No matter the risk, I must find Mr. Morris. He’s the only person who can help me now.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Lucy walked the London streets in a daze. The sting of father’s words in her heart was slowly replaced by a cold numbness that permeated her bones as if she had stood outside in the freezing rain all night. With the numbness came reckless abandon.
She hailed a cab and instructed the coachman to take her to The Morris Museum of Supernatural Curiosities in Southwark. She had no idea if anyone would be there when she arrived. Even if Mr. Morris was conscious in such a state, there was no guarantee he would have the wherewithal to find his abode.
If Mr. Morris is not at home, then I will wait there until he returns. She shivered and rubbed her arms. Was his change into the beast permanent? How did it happen, and why? Is he even human?
With a groan, she dropped her head into her hands. She pushed her racing thoughts aside and focused on the clopping of horse hooves and the rhythmic thumping and clacking of the wheels on the wet cobblestone.
When the cab halted in front of the museum, there was no doubt that the beast had returned. One of the doors was hanging crookedly off its hinges. Deep, long gashes slashed the wood as if powerful claws had dragged down its length. The building beyond looked dark enough to swallow one whole.
The cab pulled away with a jolt, leaving Lucy alone. She walked up to the mangled door, her heart pounding in time with her steps. She traced the scratches with the tips of her fingers before curling them into a fist to knock.
“Miss Lucy?” Witherbones’s beady eyes peered at her from the gap and his spindly, knobby fingers crept around the door. “What are you doing here?”
“I have come to see Mr. Morris.”
“Master is not at home.”
She gestured to the claw marks on the door. “I know he was here at one point. Where did he go? Do you know?”
“You misunderstand me, miss.” The Brownie shook his head wearily, his cap drooping miserably. “The beast is inside, but my master is not present. It would be wise of you to leave this place until he regains himself.”
“How long will that take?”
“Last time the beast took hold, my master was lost for two years.”
“Two years?” She balked. “How did he come back to himself the last time? Perhaps there is a way to bring him back once he’s changed?”
The Brownie frowned and rubbed his stubby, scraggly-bearded chin. “Nothing that Witherbones could do. Beasts like him see lesser Fae like ol’ Witherbones as nothing more than a rabbit. He could gobble me up without a thought. Perhaps there is something you could do…”
“What could I do?” Her stomach turned to ice.
The creature lifted his dog-like nose and gave her a few sniffs. “He wouldn’t likely mistake you for a lesser faery or a human. Pardon me, miss, but you smell even less human than you did before.”
Stricken, Lucy reeled back. The Brownie delivered the dreaded information in such a casual tone that it made the sting of it worse. Father said I was forever changed. I suppose he was right.
Straightening, she said with forced confidence, “If you believe I can help your master somehow, then I shall try.”
The Brownie nodded and, with a flick of his wrist, levitated the door from its hinges to make a path wide enough for her to walk through. “You had best come in from the chill, miss, and warm your bones a while. You’ll need all your courage.”
Lucy followed Witherbones into the morning room. When she asked if the beast would disturb them, the Brownie informed her that his master was locked in his bedroom on the second floor. That did little to comfort her when she remembered what the beast had done to the front door.
While Witherbones stoked the fire, Lucy sat in a chair nursing the steaming cup of tea he had brought her. After a minute, she asked, “Witherbones, how did Mr. Morris become this way? Is he even human?”
“He’s human, all right, despite his unfortunate condition. But when a child like him comes from a long line of witches, magic is as much a part of his life from birth as it is for any faery.”
“Witches?” She set her cup down clumsily, sloshing hot tea over her hand, as images of haggard old crones came to mind. “Mr. Morris is—?”
“Aye, he was a powerful witch. Gave all that up years ago. But there are some things that cannot be gotten rid of so easily once you let them into your life.”
She shook out her scalded hand. “You said Mr. Morris had been lost to the beast for two years the last time. What happened then to cause the change?”
The Brownie lowered the poker with a sigh. “The master’s siblings perished. Scarlet fever was what took ’em. Terrible, terrible way to die.”
The image of Mother’s blood-stained handkerchief flashed through her mind, and her stomach clenched. “Oh, how dreadful.”
“It was dreadful.” The Brownie shook his head bitterly. “Used to be thick as thieves, Master Cecil and Miss Emily, especially after their parents died and they had to care for little Simon alone. Then they had a terrible argument one night, and Emily took Simon and left. Last poor Witherbones ever saw them.”
Emily. That was the name Mr. Morris called out when he was ill. Lucy asked, “Why did they argue?”
“Emily found out that he had used magic to turn himself into that beast. He had killed two men.”
Hot blood began to pound in Lucy’s head. “Killed them? Why?”
“Did it to protect Miss Emily, he said. But that didn’t matter. She thought he was dangerous—a monster, she called him.”
It was like hearing her father’s cruel words over again. She clenched the fabric of her skirts until her knuckles blanched.
“She finally sent for Cecil when she was dying,” Witherbones continued solemnly. “But she died without amending her accusations, and it tormented my master to near insanity. He wandered onto the moors and transformed into the beast to escape it. For two years I thought him dead.”
“Why did he come back?” Lucy asked.
“He was a mindless animal for those two years, but one day by chance, he saw a rare flower faery on the moorland. He said it was so beautiful that it awoke the man inside.”
She let out a small, surprised laugh. “He always claimed that beauty was what made life worth living.”
“That’s how you can wake the man inside the beast, Miss Lucy.”
“Why would you think—?” Her hand went unconsciously to touch her scarred mouth, but she clenched her fingers in her lap. “You are speaking of my artwork. That is it. If I can show the beast the man he was, perhaps he will remember himself.”
The Brownie tossed another log on the fire and dusted off his hands before turning to squint at her. “Do you have your supplies ready?”
“I can manage with anything you can find.”
Mr. Morris’s room was eerily silent. If there was breathing from inside, Lucy could not hear it over her heart beating like a drum. There would be no indication of a beast’s presence save for the deep gouges in the wood under the door from vicious claws.
From his hiding spot behind the oxbow in the hallway, Witherbones turned the key in the door to Mr. Morris’s room with a snap of his fingers. The metallic click of it made Lucy start. She gripped the fresh sketch in one hand and a lit candle in the other. Her fingers were stained a smudgy grey from the graphite.
The door slowly swung open with a low creak. Lucy held her breath, waiting for the beast to make the first move. Nothing stirred from inside, but several feathers fluttered across the threshold from the draft. Even though the room was dark, from her vantage point Lucy could see the beast’s destruction. Tatters of fabric were strewn across the floor with more white feathers.
Just when she thought her lungs would burst, a low growl sounded in front of her. She felt it rumble through her bones. Then came the scraping of massive claws on the floor like the animal was rising.
Witherbones frantically waved her toward the open doorway, and she took one halting step closer and gasped. The massive black cat was crouched in the shadows beside the bed; his golden eyes reflected the candlelight, and his long red tongue lapped at his mouth.
“Mr. Morris?” She heated at the sound of her own meek voice and then spoke firmer, louder. “Mr. Morris, it is Miss Lucy Todd. Do you know me?”
Rising, the beast began to pace slowly in front of the bed, his massive paws making no sound as his lithe and powerful body moved. The black fur looked almost blue in the dim light. The movements were more restless than threatening, and he let out a low huffing sound.
Encouraged, Lucy stepped into the room. She held out the artwork with one hand and brought the candle flame closer to illuminate the drawing. The candle flame shivered with her trembling arm. From memory, she had replicated her sketch of Mr. Morris’s sleeping face.
“Do you remember this man?” she asked. “The man in this drawing is who you truly are. You are not this… this creature that’s consumed you.”
The beast stopped pacing mid-stride to glare at her and then at the sketch. He was as still as a statue. Then, his pupils expanded until the iris was just a thin ring of gold swallowed by the blackness. His hide began to ripple and quiver as his breath came out in rough, low pants.
“Mr. Morris?” Lucy whispered.
A roar deafened her. Lucy cried out and dropped the parchment to cover her ear. In her haste, the candle flame snuffed out, leaving her in darkness with the creature. All she could hear were his rumbling growls and the sound of fabric ripping and furniture scraping against the floor. A mirror fell from the wall, shattering in a sharp, tinkling chorus.
Then, she heard the sound of parchment ripping near her feet. He had torn up the sketch. Lucy looked around blindly as her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness. The beast’s eyes glinted inches away, his massive head reaching her chest in height. His hot breath bathed her face, and she heard him lick his sharp teeth wetly.
She took a stumbling step back, refusing to look away from his piercing stare. “Mr. Morris, you are not this beast. You are a man. Tearing up that portrait does not change what you are.”
The beast drowned her out with another roar, and in her mind, she heard Mr. Morris’s ragged, strained, and broken voice as if he were speaking directly into her ear: “Leave me.”
“You cannot frighten me into leaving,” she shouted over the roar. “I have nowhere else to go. You’re the only person who can help me, Mr. Morris.”
With a huff, the creature started to pace again. Lucy reached toward him tentatively. She flinched when the tips of her fingers brushed his warm side but kept her hand there. The beast froze in place as if put under a spell, not daring to move a muscle. Picturing the sketch of his sleeping face, she imagined him transforming into the man he was.
“I am not afraid of you,” she whispered again. “My own father looked at me with fear in his eyes. He abandoned me when I needed his understanding. I refuse to do the same to another soul.”
